


The Stars Above the Path

by frankenberger



Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: A little fluffy, Anal Sex, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, a little angsty, more than a little smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: Months have passed since King Niedamir's dragon hunt, and Geralt has been busy doing what he does best - swallowing his emotions and faffing about around the countryside. In the only inn of the crappy little village of Zavada, he runs into the last man he expected to see.A quick little tale of a grumpy Witcher and a lovesick bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603636
Comments: 57
Kudos: 1599





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've blended elements of the show, the books and maybe even some of the games to cobble together this story. 
> 
> So happy to see all the new Geralt/Jaskier stories popping up here, glad I'm not the only one who adores this pairing. Love you all! Let me know if you spot any errors, I want to post it tonight but I've only read through it again a couple of times.

Zavada was nothing more than an inkblot on the map of Temeria, but Geralt had intentionally avoided the major settlements on his trip south. This was planned. He knew there were few rural folk who had coin to pay a Witcher, but there were fewer folk in the cities who had any need of one. His gamble hadn’t paid off, as his purse was almost empty and the isolation was wearing him out. Geralt was starting to crave company, strange as it was. A drink or two. A hot meal he didn’t need to catch and cook with his own hands. It was late by the time Geralt reached the village, but he could still see the dull flicker of firelight through the windows of the nameless, rustic inn. It was unexpected but welcome, the promise of relief after a long day on horseback. 

As they approached at a slow trot, his horse gave a snort of derision at the muted sound of voices inside the inn. Geralt chuckled. “No stables, but it’s the best we can do, Roach. Unless you’d rather go hungry til we reach Maribor.” She tossed her head, clearly not in the mood to go any further in the dark. Geralt reached out to stroke the mare’s chestnut mane. “It’s settled, then.” 

Behind the dilapidated inn, Geralt spotted a grove of stately oaks reaching up toward the stars, festooned with mistletoe and moss. He dismounted, leading Roach toward the trees. Better to keep her out of sight, he thought. Small villages were close-knit by nature, but villagers could be equally close-minded when it came to Witchers. Should he need to make a quick exit from the inn, it would be easier to slip out the back.

“I’ll return soon,” he promised Roach as he hitched her to a lichen-green trunk. “Sooner, should the visit prove eventful.”

Bracing himself for possible hostility, Geralt made his way to the front of the inn and pushed open the heavy door. The interior was small and crowded, reeking of smoke and sour beer. The floorboards beneath his feet were sticky with various unknown substances. Old bloodstains, perhaps, or liquor. As he approached the bar, he was thankful that he barely earned a glance from the other patrons. Although he could not see the musician, Geralt could hear the sound of a lute playing a sweet and familiar ballad that wove through the muted conversation and laughter of the late hour. It was welcoming, to hear music after weeks of lonely travel. The Witcher had only planned to stay long enough to eat, but surely he would have time for an ale.

He rested his hands upon the bar and motioned for the innkeeper, a grizzled old man who seemed more interested in listening to the music than serving a hungry customer. The bard’s ballad was drawing to a close, and Geralt found himself disappointed. He had heard this song a time or two before, although he couldn’t place it or give it a name. The tune reminded him of the times he had traveled with companions, when the ache of solitude had become too much to bear. It reminded him of nights around a campfire, sharing dreams and plans for a future that was never guaranteed. Sleeping under an endless blanket of stars.

The bard played his final note, and raised his voice above the clattering of tankards and the stamping of feet, his well-deserved ovation. “What next, my fine fellows?” He cried, in a voice that was all-too familiar to the Witcher.

“Fuck,” muttered Geralt, already turning back toward the door. He knew this had seemed too good to be true, and Jaskier was the last person in the world he wanted to see. He had misgivings about leaving, hunger and shame and guilt. But it couldn’t be helped. Geralt slipped out as quickly as he could, hoping the bard hadn’t noticed his presence.

Perhaps, he thought, he had a crust of stale bread left in his saddlebags to keep him going, or he could charm some farmer’s wife along the road into offering hospitality. Roach would have to cope until they got to Maribor, although she wouldn’t be pleased about covering so many miles in a day.

He had just reached the trees when he heard the inn door open, and the scuffle of footsteps as someone hurried out into the darkness.

“Geralt!” The word was choked, almost a whisper. It was strange to hear such restraint from Jaskier, a man so accustomed to causing a commotion. The bard began pacing back and forth in the street, doubtless straining his eyes for some sign of Geralt. “I saw you leave the inn. I know it’s you.”

Roach nickered softly as Geralt began to untie her reins, nudging him away. Supremely bad timing on her part, or perhaps she was doing it on purpose just to spite him.

“Geralt.” Jaskier pushed his way through the bushes that bordered the road, moving toward the sound of the rebellious mare. “Come on, man. It’s been months. Let me buy you a tankard of ale before you go stomping off in a tantrum.” He approached slowly, wary of rousing the Witcher’s temper. “It’s the least I can do, as the renowned White Wolf is the reason I’ve coin in my purse.”

It was odd for him to credit Geralt rather than his own poetry or skill in embellishing the truth. Geralt grunted. “Have you been following me?”

“All the way from Caingorn? You must be jesting, Geralt.” The troubadour laughed to cover his discomfort. “I have no aptitude for hunting, unless the prize I seek is hidden beneath the skirts of a willing maid. I also know better than to chase after a wounded bear.”

The last time they had spoken had been amongst the peaks of the mountains between Caingorn and Holopole, after King Niedamir’s ill-fated dragon hunt. It still stung Geralt to remember what had happened. The indignance on Yennefer’s face when they fought. The fading scent of lilac and gooseberries as she left him, again. And the bard. The bloody bard. Always there, a fly buzzing ceaselessly around his corpse. If Geralt had spoken a little too harshly to Jaskier, could he really be blamed?

As he moved closer, Geralt had to admit that the bard looked pitiful when you stripped away his usual boasting and bluster. Painfully vulnerable, like a stray dog with the mange. Geralt scowled at Jaskier, restraining himself lest he apologize without meaning to. “Get back to your adoring crowd, bard. I’ve no time for you.”

“I have a room at the inn,” Jaskier persisted, taking another step toward Geralt. “Yes, it’s small, and the fleabitten mattress is stuffed with moldy straw, but it’s a damn sight better than sleeping in the dirt. When’s the last time you slept in an actual bed, Geralt?”

He had spent a few nights at the Temple of Melitele on the way south, but Geralt couldn’t help but think of Yennefer’s bed instead. The Witcher closed his eyes, thinking of the plush softness of the downy pillows, of the sorceress’s supple breasts. The taste of her upon his lips, the cries she uttered as she climaxed. While Jaskier and the dwarves had slept in the chilly mountain winds, they had plundered each other over and over in her luxurious tent. He cherished the memory, hoping it wasn’t the last time he would see her.

Geralt grit his teeth. Mistaking the Witcher’s expression for one of barely restrained anger, Jaskier held up his hands in surrender. “I’m leaving in the morning, east toward Moën, and from thence to Temeria’s coast. I seek no escapades, no tomfoolery. You can carry on with whatever adventure you’ve got going.” He forced a smile. “I won’t even ask. Just drink with me, for old time’s sake.”

Geralt thought about it. He wasn’t in the mood to apologize to the troubadour, but neither did Jaskier seem to be fishing for his repentance. The ache in his muscles seemed even more pronounced when he thought about sleeping in a bed, moldy or not.

“Are you frowning, or is that just your face? It’s dark out here.” Jaskier squinted. “What do you say? Look, I’ll even keep quiet, if that’s what you want.”

Geralt snorted, despite himself. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he replied dryly.

Jaskier clapped his hands together. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, then hesitated. “Wait, do I need to stop talking already? Am I making you mad? Are you regretting this?”

“Not yet,” said Geralt, striding past the nervous bard. “But don’t push your luck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt didn’t regret coming back to the inn, at least not until Jaskier ordered their supper. “Food, my good man,” he cried to the innkeeper, tossing a gold oren onto the bar. “Perhaps some roast hare, or that fine venison stew I tasted yesternight. And a demijohn of your best vodka.”

“One drink, I said.” Geralt grumbled.

“Come on, Geralt.” The bard sighed. “How else do you expect me to sleep? I already promised you the bed.”

“Forget the fucking vodka. Two tankards of ale,” said Geralt to the innkeeper, who nodded and swept the coin from the bar. 

“You’re no fun,” said Jaskier as he led them to a table in the corner. Despite his words, his lips were curving into a wistful smile. “I missed you, Geralt.”

Geralt gave a non-committal hum in reply. If he were to be honest, he had missed Jaskier a great deal. They made an odd pair, in appearances. The Witcher in his customary black leather, and Jaskier in his far more extravagant finery. He took a sideward glance at the troubadour as they walked, taking in the entire picture. Jaskier’s glossy locks drooped low over one of his piercing blue eyes, and his fine elven lute was slung across his back. His lavender brocade doublet had puffed sleeves slashed through with a deeper violet, and were matched with dark silk breeches and turquoise hose. Geralt would have bet a thousand Novigradian crowns that he had a puffy plumed hat to match the ensemble somewhere among his effects. He stood out like a peacock alongside the drab brown shades of the villagers, a ridiculous fop who should have been robbed or beaten a dozen times over since his arrival in Zavada. But yet he was still here, carrying on in his own reckless way. Geralt wondered how many hearts he had broken already in this muddy backwater hamlet.

“Don’t worry,” said Jaskier as he eased himself into one of the stout wooden chairs. “I won’t ask for details of your latest exploits, no matter how much I’m in the mood to compose a new ballad.”

Geralt sat, the chair creaking under his bulk. “The crowd seemed to enjoy your last ballad well enough,” he said.

If he didn’t know better, Geralt could have sworn he saw the bard blush. “Oh, did you like it?” He asked. “The Stars Above The Path, one of my more popular tunes. Nothing better than a love song to bring out the romantic in the most hardened of souls.”

A tired-looking kitchen-hand arrived at the table with their tankards of ale and two wooden trenchers of venison stew, aromatic with sweet spices. The scent was almost overwhelming, after an eon of nothing but dry provisions. Geralt fell upon the meal like a ravenous beast, too hungry for decorum. “You in love again, bard?” He asked, waving his spoon. “Who is she this time, some fine lady or a farmer’s daughter?”

Jaskier swigged his drink, offering Geralt a forced smile that never reached his eyes. “You know me, Geralt. Always lusting after the utterly unobtainable.”

“It’ll pass.” Geralt scooped up another chunk of the tender meat.

“But what if it’s destined to be, Geralt? What then?” Jaskier’s eyes sparkled in the firelight, and an unreadable expression crossed his face. This was a risky subject for Geralt, a man so abused by fate. Bound to both the sorceress Yennefer and a child surprise in Cintra. Jaskier had to be aware that he was treading in risky territory.

Geralt swallowed his mouthful. “Fuck destiny. I’m the last man you should ever be asking about fate, or love. Like I said, you’ll get over it if you make an effort. Unless you prefer to wallow in your own misery.”

“Better to wallow in my own misery than the misery of others,” Jaskier replied, with a wink. He drained his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He hadn’t so much as touched his supper yet. No doubt he would start complaining of thirst in another minute or two. “No, lovesickness will suit me for a while yet. It keeps the fires of inspiration burning. Perhaps I’ll write another song about it.”

“Did you write that song about your unobtainable love?” Geralt asked. “With the stars and the road?” He was genuinely curious. He had quite liked the ballad, but knowing it was about a foolish infatuation took some of the shine off.

Jaskier looked away from him, fidgeting with his battered metal tankard. “Well, yes, but it’s a complex metaphor. It would take ages to explain.”

“Don’t bother then,” Geralt replied. He cleaned off his plate with a chunk of rye bread, and dropped the trencher with a sigh. The portion wasn’t nearly big enough to sate his hunger entirely. He took a sip of ale to wash down the food, finding it to be a surprisingly pleasant brew. Setting down the tankard, he fixed Jaskier with an intense gaze. “Are you going to eat that?”

The bard grimaced. “I’ve lost my appetite,” he said, pushing his serving of stew toward the Witcher. “Help yourself.”

Geralt grunted his assent and dug in, pretending all the while that he didn’t notice Jaskier staring at him. The bard definitely had his issues, but Geralt was damned if he was going to let it ruin his meal.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier was true to his word, as the room he had rented was barely big enough to stand beside the bed, let alone sleep on the floor. It had a small window, high upon the wall and rendered opaque by dust and grease. The single candle that lit the chamber reeked of poorly rendered tallow, and the ceiling was draped with cobwebs.

“Cozy,” said Geralt, working on the buckles of his armor as soon as he had closed the door behind them. 

Trapped between the undressing Witcher and the wall, admittedly a claustrophobic scenario, Jaskier seemed uneasy once again. He sat upon the creaking bed and took a swig from the demijohn of vodka he had wheedled from the innkeeper on the way up the stairs. “I think you’re wrong to scoff at fate,” he said, as if he had been musing on it since their earlier conversation. “Destiny should be something you embrace, not something you run away from like a little girl.”

Geralt, who had discarded his armor on the floor and was in the middle of pulling his black shirt over his head, scowled at the bard.

“Not that I’m calling you a little girl, of course,” babbled Jaskier, his eyes lingering on the muscular lines of Geralt’s bare chest, his wolf’s head medallion glimmering in the candlelight. “You are… uh, most definitely not that. I’m just trying to say, you should give fate a little credit. It brought you and I together, after all. And we keep running into each other, time and time again. What else would you call it?”

“A series of unfortunate coincidences.” Geralt’s voice was flat. He cast off his boots, and began to unbutton his trousers, revealing the creamy white linen of the loose braies he wore underneath. Jaskier’s eyes darted between Geralt’s face and the floorboards, distracted. Thankfully, he seemed unable to compose a witty reply.

Eventually, Jaskier cleared his throat. “I’m thankful for destiny,” He said, unslinging his lute from his shoulder and leaning it against the wall. “It’s better to have known love, despite the pain.” He stood up slowly, facing away from the Witcher as he unbuttoned his doublet. He didn’t seem to expect a response.

Geralt watched the bard disrobe in silence. If he had been a poet like Jaskier rather than a fighter, Geralt surely would have known what to say. But, as it was, the words on his chest were too heavy to spill from his lips. Admitting defeat, Geralt clambered onto the bed and turned toward the wall. The old wood of the bed-frame squeaked in protest, and Geralt was surrounded by the smell of musty straw, old sweat, and Jaskier. From what he had said, the bard had only been here a night. He had somehow managed in that time to imbue the bed with his own distinctive scent, like sandalwood and juniper. It wasn’t unpleasant, by any means. 

Behind him, he could hear Jaskier fiddling with his elaborate outfit, stopping occasionally to gulp down another slug of vodka. It took far longer than it should have, but the noise wasn’t the only thing keeping Geralt awake. Some kind of revelation was gnawing at him, just below the level of his consciousness. Like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.

Finally, Jaskier blew out the candle and stretched out onto the floor. “Night, Geralt.” His voice was muffled, strange.

“Hmm.” Geralt closed his eyes, waiting for sleep.

Unfortunately, the blissful silence didn’t last long. For the long minutes that followed, Jaskier shifted constantly from side to side. He emitted the occasional exasperated sigh, as if he expected Geralt to ask him what was wrong.

“Go to sleep,” muttered Geralt, resisting the urge to throttle the troubadour with his bare hands.

Jaskier turned toward him, his feet thumping against the floor. “Geralt, can I tell you something? It’s…” He sighed again. “No, never mind. Better to get some sleep.”

Geralt rolled over on the scratchy mattress, easily making out the bard’s shape in the dark room with his mutant eyes. If Jaskier wouldn’t talk, then he supposed it was up to him. “I’ve been thinking about that ballad of yours,” he started. “I’ve heard it before, when we were travelling north along the river Braa. Do you remember?”

“How could I forget, with those two fine Zerricanian warrior women, and all their varied charms. I think they liked to hear me sing, unlike some people I know.”

Geralt shook his head in the darkness. If Jaskier had one fault, it was that he spent too much time following his cock around. Such a disposition would only lead him to trouble. “Don’t let it go to your head, but I liked that song too. It reminded me of good things.”

A choked noise came from the direction of the bard, almost like a sob. “Really?” he asked finally.

Geralt took a deep breath, and cast the dice. “I’m less of an idiot than you think, Jaskier. You wrote the song about me, didn’t you?”

Jaskier sat up, scrabbling on the ground behind him. “Damn it, Geralt, most of my songs are about you.” One of his outstretched hands knocked over the demijohn of vodka, sending it spilling to the floorboards. “Fuck,” he said. “Now I’ll never get any sleep.” Was he crying?

Geralt got out of the bed, wincing at the sting of vodka on his callused feet. “Get up,” he barked, gesturing broadly toward the bed.

Jaskier climbed to his feet, seeming to understand the gist of Geralt’s meaning despite the gloom. “Ah, that’s very… Thank you, Geralt. Very gentlemanly of you.” He crawled blindly between the sheets, exaggerating his relief in his usual dramatic way. “You really can be quite gallant when you- Aagh!” He yelped with surprise as Geralt climbed into the bed behind him, folding himself around Jaskier’s slender frame.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Geralt said, as Jaskier writhed about in an attempt to create some distance between their bodies. “This bed is big enough for two. Now quit wriggling.”

Long ago, Jaskier had massaged Geralt’s back and buttocks with a healing chamomile salve, and he had done so without a complaint. A long, meticulous massage. And yet, this was too great a leap of intimacy? Geralt wondered whether Jaskier had been an only child, if he was so unused to sharing a bed.

Jaskier gasped audibly as the Witcher’s arm snaked around his waist, pulling them tighter against one another. They fit together perfectly, Geralt’s chest against the bard’s back, their legs entangled. Geralt doubted that the thin layers of their underwear were doing much to disguise his growing interest in the proceedings. He leaned in, his long silver hair tickling against Jaskier’s shoulder as he whispered into the younger man’s ear. “You never answered my question.”

“Ah,” said Jaskier. “What?”

“Did you write that love song about me, Jaskier?” He punctuated his words by pushing his pelvis forward, rubbing his swiftly hardening cock against the cleft of Jaskier’s arse.

“Yes,” the bard replied breathlessly. “It’s you. It’s always been you. Well, not always, but the last decade at least.”

Geralt started to trace small circles on Jaskier’s belly with the callused palm of his hand. He had such soft skin, so perfumed. 

“But I know you love her,” Jaskier continued, the words pouring out of him as from a tapped keg. “I’ve never asked for more than your friendship. I just want to be near you.”

Geralt planted a soft kiss on Jaskier’s shoulder, tasting both sweetness and the salt of his sweat. “Are we close enough?” He murmured, allowing his fingers to stray down the bard’s body and tug at the ties of his breeches.

“Closer,” said Jaskier, straining to turn his head toward Geralt. 

Geralt tossed the sheet aside and swung one leg over the bard, pinning him in place. “Like this?” he asked, mischievously.

“Have mercy, you fiend.” Jaskier’s face was flushed with anticipation, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I beg you, closer.”

Geralt leaned in with a teasing slowness, and kissed him. The bard’s mouth was soft, tasting of hops and the bitter burn of his vodka chaser. At first the kiss was hesitant, as many first kisses had a tendency to be. An exploration, a test of limits. Breathing into each other, learning the curvature of each other’s lips. Then Jaskier’s impatience took over, and he charged into the assault. Their tongues clashed together, Geralt matching his hunger with ferocity. The bard kissed him desperately, as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

Jaskier scrabbled at the waistband of Geralt’s braies, pulling the linen down over his hipbones to release his full, throbbing length. He swallowed the moan that came from Geralt’s lips, claiming it as a prize for a battle won as he reached out to grasp the Witcher’s cock.

Geralt gnawed gently at the bard’s lip before pulling away for a breath. He didn’t need air as much as the other man, but he would rather Jaskier not pass out from suffocation. “What do you want, Jaskier?” His voice was deep and rumbling in his own ears. “Tell me, poet.”

“Your sword,” Jaskier said, the words indistinct through shallow, panting breath. “Run me through with your blade. Bury it deep inside me, until… Until it’s all I can feel.” He slid his hand up and down Geralt’s slippery length. “When I say your sword, I mean…”

Geralt rolled over onto his back, dragging the bard along with him. He grabbed a fistful of sweat-damp hair and pulled Jaskier’s head back, exposing the pale flesh of his throat. “I said, I’m no idiot,” he growled, tracing Jaskier’s pulse with his fingertips. Feeling the roar of his blood so close beneath the skin. “Lose the breeches.”

Jaskier struggled to pull his underwear down in the dark, losing his balance twice before Geralt slapped his hands away and took on the task himself. All obstacles dealt with, Geralt squeezed the bard’s bare buttocks, relishing the sound that the younger man made and the expression of pained bliss upon his face. Geralt wondered if he knew how beautiful he looked, when he didn’t realize that he could be seen.

With nothing but his own saliva and Geralt’s precome to ease the way, Jaskier deftly impaled himself on the head of Geralt’s cock. He hissed with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort as he sank down, and Geralt groaned as he was gradually sheathed inside the the tight, wet heat. It bordered on the overwhelming, an intensity he had barely experienced in his couplings with women. It was all hard angles and firm muscles, rather than softness and pliancy. Hoarse grunts and muttered curses, and the scent of male musk taking over the rank odor of the room.

Jaskier lifted himself up on his knees, his muscles straining as he began to fuck himself deeply on Geralt’s sizable shaft. His own considerable erection bobbed up and down as he moved, dripping slick onto Geralt’s belly. Geralt reached out to stroke him, wrapping his large hand around the velvet-smooth skin and pumping vigorously. He wanted to give Jaskier the release he would soon be reaching himself. He wanted to see Jaskier’s face as he came, his favorite kind of poetry.

“Sing for me, Jaskier.” Geralt was trying to hold himself together, so close to the edge. “Sing.”

Jaskier’s knees buckled and he cried out, high and wavering. “Geralt!” He shuddered in warning, and his seed spurted out over Geralt’s hand. His eyes, two windows into a clear midday sky, rolled toward the soot-stained ceiling. His teeth were bared and animalistic. It was perfect, eloquent. The best poem Jaskier had ever composed, writ upon the ecstatic features of his face.

The Witcher released Jaskier’s over-sensitive cock and gripped him tightly by the hips. Holding him up, turning his shrieks into moans. Thrusting upwards with an urgent violence, chasing his completion. One last grunt, and he lost control. He spilled deep inside the bard, allowing the exhausted man to collapse upon his chest. Skin to skin, their racing heartbeats synchronized. Their bodies merged as one.

Jaskier made a small noise of discontent as Geralt’s softening cock slipped out of his body. The Witcher wasn’t sure if it was from the ache of their exertions, or the dissolution of their momentary connection. He wasn’t about to ask. He simply lay there, sweat cooling on his skin. Basking in the pleasant sleepiness that was engulfing him. 

Jaskier rolled over and thumped into the wall, misjudging the width of the bed. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Geralt laughed. “So graceful.” With some careful prodding and re-positioning, he managed to rearrange them both into a semi-comfortable position for sleeping. His arm around Jaskier’s waist, their bare bodies aligned. 

They fit together perfectly. They really did.

“Now do you think you can sleep?” asked the Witcher.

Jaskier didn’t reply, his eyes already closed. His breath was slow and steady. 

Tomorrow, Geralt would wake Jaskier with a kiss, to see the look upon his face as he remembered the night before. He would reveal that the Nilfgaardian troops were marching north, that he was heading to Cintra to protect his child surprise. He would make Jaskier promise to travel to safety, not to stop until he was north of the Pontar. He only hoped that the bard would take his advice. 

Destiny or not, what he had found with Jaskier was too valuable to lose.

Geralt followed Jaskier into sleep, dreaming of the stars above the path.


End file.
